Topic: T-shaped Visor (this poem resembles his helmet when centered)

A red light flashes on the dash of Slave I,warning of the completion of the hyperjump.The creature sitting in the captain's chair is a human,though few people living actually know that for a fact.

He wakes from something closer to meditation than sleep.His hands move with precision to retake manual control.It has been done so many times that he is nearly automatic.It's time to go to work for the most notorius hunter known.

The vessel re-enters real space as the lines become points,and the T-shaped visor moves slightly to watch the scanner.Too early, but not by much, and always better than too late.Time to take up a position at the far side of the third moon.

Scanners set to passive, awaiting the beacon from his quarry.There it comes, announcing fear well ahead of a hastened flight.Why do any of them persist in running from this unmatched man.It's always an exercise in futility to resist him, by flight or fight.

With more markings on his armor than an astromech can count,this huntsman has gained more experience than others imagine.Raised first by his father, he inherited the trade and all it's tools.After a battle took his father, Count Dooku himself finished him.

Just before finishing their calculations,with no apparent sign of the hound on them,the fugitives relax with a rising optimism.They are nearly clear of the gravity well.

They never had any chance, of course, not in the battered old tug they chose.Slave I launches like an silent owl from it's concealment of the night side.The fools break away from their vector in a blind panic, but quickly lose the race.The hunter fires the heavy cannons of his angled police cruiser at their ion drive.

The vessel's engines are hit and shut down from the sharpshooter's keen targeting.It's a level of skill that only a handful of beings in the galaxy can lay claim to.It's a common practise for this secretly force-sensitive but untrained dark-sider.And it's only one of too many reasons that he's respected by even Lord Darth Vader.

Re: T-shaped Visor (this poem resembles his helmet when centered)

You mean this one?

The blood on thy hands, the sores at thy feet. What man can age without a soul, what life can struggle without a heart? Reality is but the passing of age, time is just a word. They cower, they hide, what good does it do? All who would struggle, all that would cower, plead to beg and shudder to see, are but pawns to man with a soul as such. The blaster fires, the shot rangs out, a criminal falls to his feet. The blind can feel his passing by, the deaf will just back away. For a man such as this, a demon or saint, holds power to grasp thee. To bind and shackle, cage away, to sign away your life. I pray for those innocents, that would cross his path, and those that would hold a knife and thrust it forth. Not long lived are they. This man, this being, this demon or saint; is a creature called Fett you see.

Re: T-shaped Visor (this poem resembles his helmet when centered)

Incidentally, I dedicated that poem to Jason Wingreen, who did the original voice for Fett. I searched for Wingreen's picture for a long time online, and finally got one by accident from somewhere in the first ten listings. A recording came with it, "Put Captain Solo in the cargo hold." Well, I'd have saved it and given it here if I'd been at home, but perhaps later.

Re: T-shaped Visor (this poem resembles his helmet when centered)

Maltese Kentaiba wrote:

You mean this one?

The blood on thy hands, the sores at thy feet. What man can age without a soul, what life can struggle without a heart? Reality is but the passing of age, time is just a word. They cower, they hide, what good does it do? All who would struggle, all that would cower, plead to beg and shudder to see, are but pawns to man with a soul as such. The blaster fires, the shot rangs out, a criminal falls to his feet. The blind can feel his passing by, the deaf will just back away. For a man such as this, a demon or saint, holds power to grasp thee. To bind and shackle, cage away, to sign away your life. I pray for those innocents, that would cross his path, and those that would hold a knife and thrust it forth. Not long lived are they. This man, this being, this demon or saint; is a creature called Fett you see.

Re: T-shaped Visor (this poem resembles his helmet when centered)

Nice poems and the such.

I thought that no Mandalorian could feel the Force, part of their seperation from the galaxy and the small gene pool that they sprung from.

I found this though:After a thousand years on their new homeworld the five thousand original surviving colonists had grow to 5 million, but the small gene pool that they were all descended from caused the traits of the original five thousand to become magnified. Firstly the harsh conditions, and the feeling the republic had abandoned them became the foundations of a violent temperament that exists throughout the Mandalore. To counter this their civilisation became very honour driven formalising combat and battle to a point where it no longer endangers their entire civilisation. The fact that none of the colonists were force users or even force sensitive has become magnified into a strong resistance to the manipulations of the force.